


when i knew love's perfect ache

by brandflakeeee, harlequintessential



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Beatrice hates herself, Canonical Character Death, Drinking, F/M, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Minor Character Death, Mistakes were made, Olaf hates himself, Olaf just crashes into a lot of stuff, Party Crashing, Suicidal Thoughts, it was only a kiss how did it end up like this, least of all your humble writers, mentions of Lemony/Beatrice and Bertrand/Beatrice but it's not really the focus of the fic, nobody feels good about the people they've become, this started out as a joke and now we're ride or die, wedding crashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandflakeeee/pseuds/brandflakeeee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequintessential/pseuds/harlequintessential
Summary: "I know you will never want to speak to me again. I know you will never see me again. And I'm sorry.I'm sorry because I very much think I love you. And now I've ruined everything."Five moments in the love story—a phrase which here means "a tumultuous affair including quite a lot of hate, self-doubt, tragedy, and mistakes"—of a firestarter and the phoenix who rose from the ashes that he left behind.





	when i knew love's perfect ache

**Author's Note:**

> Look, neither of us expected to end up shipping this either, okay? It just happened, and we went with it, and now here we are. Welcome to the dumpster fire that we set. This is a literate roleplay that jumped from keyboard to keyboard at obscene hours of the morning on Discord, mildly edited both to flow better and to remove all the OOC screeching.
> 
> Beatrice Anwhistle/Baudelaire is written by Brandflakeeee; Count Olaf is written by Harlequintessential. The perspective of the story-telling switches between the two periodically.
> 
> Title pilfered unabashedly from "Arsonist's Lullaby", by Hozier.

She's wearing red, a beacon of colour in the dismal grey and black audience. She's quite certain the back is laced too tightly because she can't breathe, unless it's the guilt already beginning to wind its way from her stomach to her chest and grab hold of her lungs. It's probably the latter. There's a small bunch of flowers in her hand—white carnations, purple hyacinth and a single red rose, nearly crimson in colour. Attached is a note, penned in her hand, sealed and tied with a ribbon, both of which she hands to Olaf with a disarming smile as if nothing in the world is wrong. "For good luck," Beatrice offers. "But you must promise not to open the letter until after the performance."

 

Olaf, for his part, is dressed to the nines in a highly theatrical outfit: face pale with thickly lined brows and eyeliner. He looks almost gaudy up close, but this is the theatre—for now, he is meant to be seen from far away. Still, he couldn't be happier that Beatrice is as close as she is, even if she's seeing him in an oddly vulnerable position, even if she's not meant to be backstage. She's his best friend, his confidante, the one girl he's fairly confident that he could actually truly love if given the chance, and she came to wish him luck. It means more than he can see, and he clutches the bouquet to his breast. "Thank you, Bea," he says. "I promise I'll wait."

 

Her smile stays, and she takes in his appearance—and for once, is very grateful not to be on stage. He wouldn't look entirely out of place in a carnival, she thinks, and amusement returns to her expression if only for a moment. "You'd better. I'll be very cross otherwise and I'll _know_ if you open it when I go through that door." Because the note had taken her ten times to write, in anticipation of her evening. Anticipation that after this evening, he will never want to see her again. Might as well make it count. "You'll do brilliantly. I'm sure of it."

 

Olaf laughs, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, coming away lightly dusted with staying powder. "And I'd never dare to incur the wrath of one most _deeply_ formidable Beatrice, so wait is what I shall do." There's an odd energy to their interaction tonight, though he chalks it up to his own nervousness. There's been an odd energy to _many_ of their talks as of late, actually, though maybe that's a byproduct of them getting older, or the feelings he's recently discovered. Either way, he's simply happy to have her here as his friend. "I'd do better if I had my typical costar with me."

 

Beatrice leans against the counter of the dressing room, arms folded over her chest. "Being away on assignment has a tendency to make attending rehearsals difficult. The next one, I promise." If only she can keep that promise. Her chest aches, still, and she tries to pretend there isn't a sharp emotion other than guilt responsible. It doesn't work. "Perhaps you might actually not get outshone by my fantastic acting abilities."

 

"Promises, promises," Olaf teases gently, grazing her arm with his knuckles. "I know, I know—you're moving onto bigger and brighter things, determined to leave your poor best friend behind in the suddenly much dimmer spotlight."

 

"Not at all. Merely making the world all the brighter for you to join." She catches his hand between her own. "I'd never leave you alone. I wouldn't be much of a friend and partner, would I?"

 

He smiles, the teasing element gone as quickly as it had come. She's always been so good at wheedling in through his defenses. "That you wouldn't be," he says, glancing almost shyly at their hands together. "And if there's anything I know about you, it's that you're the best friend I could ask for."

 

Her smile is radiant, and genuine. When she leaves the room it will disappear and the weight will return to her shoulders tenfold. For now, however—well, she is nothing if not an actor. "I strive to maintain that title. I'm quite proud of it." She squeezes his hand in her own. "Not a fire in the world would burn bright enough to change that."

 

Olaf pauses for a moment, then pulls her in tightly for a hug. He is careful not to smudge his face makeup on her immaculate shawl, but he simply needs her to be close after a line like that. "Especially not when I have you to help me put them out."

 

Beatrice hugs him fiercely, and when she pulls away she presses a kiss to his cheek, mindful not to stain his makeup. She lingers, as if she wants to say something else. She thinks better of it, and her smile is softer when she looks at him again. "Bonne chance, mon amour. See you after the show. Root beer floats on me."

 

Olaf's cheek is burning where she kissed him, and he has to be mindful not to bring up his hand up to his face. He's thankful for the pancake makeup, certain that it must be hiding the fact that he's blushing, and _dear God_ did she just call him 'mon amour'? He's died and gone to heaven; he knows that this show will be one of his best performances ever; he owes it all to her. "I'll hold you to that, ma moitié."

 

Beatrice practically glows in return. She's still hesitant to walk out that door, as if doing so will ruin everything. It will, is the problem. She swallows thickly, manages to keep her smile, before she gathers the red silk of her skirts and leaves him only a few minutes before open. There's a seat for her waiting, wedged between Bertrand and Lemony who should have arrived by now.

 

He almost breaks his word out of sheer curiosity and ethereal bliss; his hand goes to the card she left among the flowers. Hovers. Hovers. It would be so _easy_ , and really, how would she _know_ that he hadn't waited to read it? Well. This is Beatrice he’s talking about; if anyone _could_ know such a thing... Best to wait.

 

* * *

 

Olaf flings himself onto the couch in his dressing room, a grin on his face so wide he thinks his cheeks might split. _What_ a performance—one he can truly be proud that his parents and colleagues have seen. That _Beatrice_ has seen. Speaking of Beatrice... he can read that letter now. His hands reach for the envelope and he slits it open with his thumbnail, pulling out the letter within and holding it close.

 

Her note is neither short nor long, and it's written in her usual hand, albeit somewhat shaky (and the paper is blotchy, ink running in a few places toward the end).  
  
_Your parents are dead._  
  
_I'm sorry. I know that means very little on this paper and I want to take it back._  
  
_The organization made it very clear I was not allowed to say no. I wished I had. I wished I had run far away from this forsaken place, that we could have run together where they would never touch us. I didn't. Because I'm a coward._  
  
_I know you will never want to speak to me again. I know you will never see me again. And I'm sorry._  
  
_I'm sorry because I very much think I love you. And now I've ruined everything._  
  
_You deserved better. You deserved happiness. And I will certainly never forgive myself._  
  
_Run. Run away from this wretched city and this horrible organization. I fear they may ask me to do something far worse next, and I fear you the target. Please._  
  
_All my love_  
  
_Beatrice_

 

The smile on his face, the one that had been so wide and so bright, dies in an instant—yet it's still frozen to his lips in a pantomime of rigor mortis. Reading has never been his strong suit, but he's gotten very good at reading Beatrice's handwriting, better than he is at anyone else's, and so every word of this letter sinks in perfectly. His parents are dead. Beatrice _knew_ . (Beatrice is involved? No. No, she knew it was going to happen, but she wouldn't have _helped,_ she stood by and did nothing and he could kill her for that, but his Beatrice would not have kil- He can't even think it.) Beatrice loves him, and she thinks that VFD may want him dead. His head is a tumult of anger, and fear, and deep hurt (and somewhere, somewhere deep and childish, a sort of elation that she does love him, detached from the rest of her words).

 

He has to leave. He'll go to a safehouse tonight, and then tomorrow... Tomorrow...

 

He doesn't know yet. All he knows is that this Opera House is as good as ashes to him, and he stands here an orphan. And alone.

 

* * *

 

Beatrice is, to put it politely, a mess. The safe house is dusty and dank and she hates being there but she cannot risk being followed home by enemies or worse. Lemony and Bertrand are scattered in other places, leaving her to the silence of an underground bunker and a tepid pot of tea. She still wears her dress, though her hair has come free and cascades freely as she moves about a kitchenette with trembling fingers. Her eyes burn and keep burning until she loses her vision and must wipe away the tears with the back of her hand furiously. She's done a terrible thing. She had not thrown the poison dart laced with murder, no. But she had been a part of it nonetheless, letting it happen and going so far as to defend the boys in their hasty escape.

  
She'd met them, twice. Had even said hello in the lobby of the opera, smiled and waved and chatted as if nothing were wrong in the world. Now that world is dark, she feels vaguely sick, and she wishes nothing more that the blistering tea would spontaneously combust into flames in her hands, if only to burn her with it. She deserves it, she thinks. Because while Beatrice tries to be a noble and good volunteer, she knows that _murder_ is certainly not a list with those traits.  
  
So she presses a pillow into her face, smearing it with makeup and screams into the fabric stuffing with every ounce of rage, sadness, and guilt and then more. It does little to help as she falls ungracefully into the moth-eaten couch.  
  
Yes, she has ruined most everything.

 

Olaf isn't sure how he ended up at this safehouse, if he's being honest. The moments from him leaving the Opera House to him arriving at this door are all a blur in his head, and he remembers almost nothing about the journey. His feet are wet; somewhere along the way he appears to have removed his socks and shoes. It's raining and he feels as though he's drowning, hiccuping through his tears and the sky is crying with him, and he slams the door open with the brunt of his shoulder.  
  
Someone else is here. He can sense it almost immediately; the _aura_ , if you like, of the place has been recently disturbed. He can hear noises, animalistic screaming, and his chest tightens. _Was this a trap as well?_

 

Beatrice jumps immediately, skittish at the noise because her instincts are to fight whoever is there, whatever intruder thinks they can be here. Her brain tells her body to stand, but she doesn't. She can't seem to bring herself to function. It doesn't help that she's recognized the figure in the doorway and her heart feels as if it's leapt into the back of her throat. _No. No. No._  
  
She can't find words, but swallows thickly and stares at him, knowing already she has lost him forever.

 

It takes a moment for his brain to parse the figure on the couch, but he does—he knows that silhouette better than his own, knows every feature of her face even with his eyes closed, and his stomach tightens in the most painful way possible. Even now, his first instinct is to smile upon seeing her, but... Things are different now. Much, much different.  
  
It takes him a moment to speak, and it's inappropriately glib when he does, but he finally opens his mouth. "You skipped on the root beer floats."

 

She nearly sobs.  
  
Her shoulders heave with the effort of keeping her emotions at bay, much as she can. She clutches the pillow to her chest protectively. She wants to apologise, to beg forgiveness anything that might repair the damage done. But there isn't. There's nothing she can say to make things better. She could very well declare her love properly, shout it at him and she's certain it would make no difference at all. Her stomach twists painfully.  
  
"Raincheck."

 

Olaf nods, more an acknowledgement of that fact that she's said _anything_ than an acknowledgement of what she's said. It's usually easy to divorce himself from whatever feelings he may be having, to just shut off his mind and ignore his thoughts entirely, but this loss and hurt is scratching at his skull with sharp little fingers, and a tear slides down his cheek before he can stop it.  
  
"Next time," he says, knowing very well that there won't be a next time.

 

Beatrice regrets everything. _Everything._  
  
"I meant what I said," she says lowly, a half whisper. "In the letter. Every word."

 

He smiles, and there's so much anguish locked behind his eyes, and there's nothing funny about the situation but he's almost laughing anyway. "How involved were you?"

 

The smile disarms her. Unsettlingly so.  
  
"I didn't do it, if that's what you're asking. But I didn't stop them either." She's a coward, fearful suddenly of the hold the VFD has on her. Giving her no choice but theirs.  
  
"I'm so sorry."

 

He nods again, slower this time. He thought so; it's good to have that confirmed. That even though she was there, she didn't actually pull the trigger, so to speak. "How did it happen?"

 

"Poison darts." She doesn't mention their sending by Kit Snicket. His parents had not suffered, and she had made sure of that. His detachment scares her. "We couldn't say no. They made it clear we couldn't. I should have fought it. I should have fought for you."

 

His legs are weary, he realises—he has no energy to continue standing, but there's no way he can sit next to her. "Figures that we would pick the same safehouse," he says, bitterly, a sly twist to his lips as he slides to the ground to sit, leaning back against the wall.

 

She falters, but after a stretch of silence she mirrors him. She has the sudden need to be the same level, so she sinks to the floor in front of the sofa, legs to her chest. "I'll go," she offers, quieter. "You can stay. I'll go to the loft across the city."

 

He shakes his head, because for some reason, even after all this, he still cares about her safety. "It's after midnight; it's too dangerous. You take the bed, I'll take the couch, tomorrow we'll leave. Try not to murder me while I sleep."

 

"You know I wouldn't." She stares at him. Even if they asked. Even if they threatened her. She couldn't. She's sooner happy to leap from a cliff. Exhausted as she is, she isn't certain she can sleep. Not now.  
  
"I... You rest. In the bed. I have to finish some letters and get out of these clothes. I'll take a kip on the sofa."

 

Olaf cocks his head, regards her with a cold smile, though his eyes are still so full of _hurt and longing and desperation_ ; he tries to pretend he doesn't care. "I don't know that, Bea. You assisted in the murder of my _parents_ , tonight."

 

She flinches, visibly, and he might as well have struck her in the face. She has no immediate response and lets the silence stretch.  
  
"Not you. Never you."

 

Olaf pushes himself to his feet, marches to the kitchenette. There's tea in the pot, and he pours some for himself. She's always made it a little bitter for his liking, but he's bitter now too, so perhaps that's for the best. He doesn't respond, doesn't know what the words he's looking for are, other than the fact that he can no longer trust the only person he trusts completely, and he doesn't know that she wouldn't kill him. He's angry, and hurt, but mostly numb. The events of tonight seem separate from him, and he's dying to feel a damned thing about it fully, but his emotions are dim and his chest is tight and the woman he loves can't help him when she's part of the group that's hurt him.  
  
"Is that so?"

 

Beatrice sits on the floor like a child who's lost her favorite toy, that perhaps it has been burned in front of her. Everything is vaguely underwater to her, it feels like. Difficult to breathe. Echoing voices. Her gaze trails him for a moment but no, she doesn't even deserve to look at him or meet his gaze after what she's done. She's a monster, albeit an unconventional one in a pretty dress and smeared makeup. She fathoms the idea of setting the world ablaze just to get feeling back into her body, her soul, but everything feels numb. Her own cup of tea lies forgotten.  
  
Instead, she reaches for a dusty bottle of whiskey on the table, dragging it toward her.  
  
"Yes," she hisses fiercely. "It's why I told you to _run_."

 

"I don't think there's anywhere that I could go where they wouldn't find me if they wanted to," Olaf says bitterly, taking a sip of his tea. It burns his tongue and throat, but that's good, it feels _real_ , the pain centers him, so he gulps back the rest of his cup and revels in the feeling that he just swallowed a fire."Sometimes I think they put trackers in with our tattoos."  
  
He watches her tug the whiskey towards her, considers asking for a slug but thinks better of it. He doesn't particularly care for alcohol, doesn't like the taste or the way it burns his senses. The day he becomes a drunkard is the day that he is lost.

 

Beatrice isn't a drinker. Never has been. But she thinks this situation might just as well make her start. She opens the bottle with a sharp twist, studying the amber liquid for a moment before taking a swig. Immediately she half chokes, half spits it back out because it feels as if she's swallowed fire the way it burns her mouth and throat. But at least it's a feeling other than numb.  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised," she says, bitterly. Another drink, slower, and she holds it a bit better. Her eyes water. "I'd leave if I knew I could."

 

Fuck it. He needs a drink too, just one, just for tonight. If he hasn't earned one _tonight_ , he may never. "Pass me the whiskey," he says, holding a hand out. "You always were terrible at sharing."

 

She flinches again, but holds out the bottle after wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Red lipstick smears across one cheek. "Take it."

 

He takes a long draught, wincing at how badly it burns. He hadn't been expecting it to hurt so badly on his already raw throat, but again, he'll take the pain and drink it in—both literally and figuratively. A few more swigs and his skin is buzzing, blood burning through his veins, and he hands it back. Is this what being drunk feels like?

 

Beatrice takes another long drink until her head no longer aches. She's certain they can finish the bottle between them. Another drink. Another half-sob.  
  
"I meant it, you know," she whispers, liquid courage flooding her veins. "I love you."

 

Those three words dig into Olaf’s veins, light up his blood, and send his head spinning. How many nights has he spent, hoping beyond hope that he might hear those words from her lips? How many times has he imagined how she might say them? How many times has he come oh-so-close to saying it himself, only to falter at the last possible moment? Too many, on all counts, and now it's too late.  
  
"Run away with me," he says, abruptly. "You don't want to be part of VFD anymore; I have to flee. There's nothing keeping us here, not if we're very very brave, and we could go anywhere." What started out as a blasé comment is becoming an actual plan, and his eyes are shining, and despite the crushing despair in his stomach, he feels genuinely hopeful for a future they could have together. "We could _escape_ , Bea, you and I; _I love you._ "

 

Beatrice feels the guilt slide deeper and deeper into her veins, mixing with the alcohol and making her light headed. She wants to, she wants to _so badly_ that she very nearly tells him so. Hope flickers like a candle in her chest, and she doesn't have near enough oxygen to keep it alight. It suffocates, she suffocates, and the world instead burns around her in blazen mockery.  
  
She wants to. Run. With him. Never look back. But how can he look at her like that, how can he possibly _love her_ when she aided in the murder of his parents just hours ago, when their blood is still so figuratively fresh on her hands. Hands fist great handfuls of the fabric of her dress to keep them from trembling. Her entire frame is trembling, and she thinks she might not have the courage for this if it weren't for the whiskey. Swaying slightly, she rises to her knees enough so that when she shifts next to him, they're eye level. She meets his gaze with dark eyes that shine much like his. Words are useless.  
  
Before he can flee and before she loses her nerve, she kisses him. Her hands splay across his chest, her lips against his with every bit of emotion she has left. Pain. Sorrow. Apologies. Love. It is all there and more in the way her lips linger against his. It is both an apology and an answer—she knows she cannot run. Not now. As much as she wants to, as much as every fiber of her being wants to let the world go and hang. Screw being noble.

 

Olaf knows what she is saying the minute that the silence yawns out between them, and his heart cracks just a bit more. So he is truly losing everything tonight. His parents, his best friend, all of it—his world gone up, not in smoke, but through the feathered ends of a poison dart. He goes to turn away, not wanting to see her face when she tells him that she can't (won't) be with him, when she puts her hands to his chest and kisses him.  
  
He lets out a noise of surprise as their lips meet, though he'll be damned if he pulls away. Her lips are sweet and soft, and they taste of salt and whiskey and bitter tea, and somehow he's always known that this is what kissing Beatrice would be like. That it would be passionate, almost aggressive, and that he would go to his grave craving the taste of her mouth and the pressure of her lips against his.  
  
He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, not wanting to let her go because he knows that if he does, he will lose her. If he doesn't stop touching her, she can't disappear, and so he'll just have to keep her as close as possible as tears prick at his eyes and he kisses her with all the emotions he's been bottling up for God knows how many months upon years. He has to pretend that they have a future or he will fall apart right here.

 

The world stops, freezes in its rotation around the sun. Or perhaps it stops simply being her world. No, her world is beneath her fingers, against her lips, tasting of salt and alcohol and tea in her mouth—it turns to ash against her tongue. No longer is it kissing a friend, a partner. She can't put it to words, but there is no going back. There is never a chance in turning back.  
  
She wants to believe him. To go with him. To pretend and play house and imagine a future traveling and together and nothing can touch them in that pretend future. She clings to it in her imagination as she kisses him, and it's like the world is ending beyond their bubble of sanctuary. It very well might have been.  
  
She wills him silently to never forget this, forget that she loves him. They will not see each other for a very long time after this night, she fears.

"I want to," she whispers against his mouth. "I want to run and run and never look back." It sounds so easy in practice. "I think if you'd have asked me this morning, I'd have gone with you to the ends of the earth." It's a half murmured promise, a confession.  
  
But she cannot. Now she is trapped, drowning in an organization she can scarcely understand.

 

He shakes beneath her touch, feeling more vulnerable than he has in what feels like a lifetime, what may _be_ a lifetime, may be more vulnerable than he will ever be again. She is his last safehouse, not this building that they're currently in, not any other building—no, Olaf’s sanctuary is a human, is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, is a woman named Beatrice that he loves with all his heart and cannot be with him.  
  
But that is knowledge for later. Right now, he is imagining the two of them on epic adventures, quests, putting out fires together and setting the world ablaze with their mutual adoration. They can be firefighters and firestarters all at once, just the two of them, and the world can tremble at their feet before thanking them for being merciful—she keeps him good. She keeps him honest.  
  
Olaf shushes her, tears prickling at his lashes. "Let me pretend," he whispers. "If only for a while. Just for tonight, Bea, give me forever. Just until tomorrow, we have a future."

 

Tonight.  
  
Tonight is their forever. Years of quiet, silent emotion beat at her chest in effort to claw their way out. Of denying and hiding that she loves him. _Him_. No other future matters except the one they create tonight, knowing it will be shattered by morning light. Perhaps that’s the tragedy of it: like a play, meant to be experienced in the moment, dissolved of permanence. There would not be another tonight. Tomorrow she will be in misery, brought on by her own doing and will deserve it. Tonight she clings to what happiness she can find.  
  
"Forever, then,” Beatrice echoes, pressing her forehead to his, hands reaching up to cup his face so her thumbs might wipe at his tears,  and the makeup residue so she might see him properly, even if she cannot stop her own. She will look back on this moment frozen in time, and she will cling to it like an anchor, a beacon of hope in a world lit only by burning fires.

 

Her hands come away from his face tacky with grease paint, and he has the sudden urge to kiss her palms, pull her close and leave his lips sticky with his own makeup, but instead he simply rests his palms on the back of her hands. They'd all taken classes, once upon a time, on palm-reading, and he already knows that if he were to look at hers, dusted white and tan with his stage makeup, all he would see would be heartbreak.  
  
"You're so very very beautiful, Beatrice Anwhistle," he whispers.

 

She doesn't feel beautiful. She feels like a monster, knows she must look the same. If she looks at her hands she worries she will see the blood she's spilled this night, even if it is only white grease paint. She wants to trace those very hands across every bit of him she can reach, casting long swaths of the makeup in every direction.  
  
No, she does not feel beautiful. But for tonight, they are pretending. So she smiles, though it's a ghost of one, flickering and gone in the next instant.  
  
"Stay. Tonight. With me."

 

Olaf leans his forehead against hers, tears in his eyes that he doesn't want to let fall, lips brushing along the bridge of her nose. She smells like perfume, sweet and flowery, a scent that he's associated with her for as long as he can remember, and he breathes it in like he may never again. (After all, he might not.)  
  
"I'll never leave you willingly, ma moitié," he whispers into her skin, soft and low, hoping that the brush of his lips will make it a promise.

 

It's the second time he's called her that and she feels her heart ache for something she can never have, will never be. 'Devil take hindmost', they had been taught. Everyone for themselves, in the end. Beatrice has always fought against that particular regime, and the rebellious nature thrums against her chest like a second heartbeat.  
  
No, he will never leave her. Not willingly. She will have to do it for him. Tomorrow when morning comes, she will be long gone.  
  
"You've fallen in love with an Icarus," she murmurs, and there's a bitterness in her tone that has nothing to do with the tea. "I've flown too close to the sun. Fallen from grace. You deserve someone who can bring you happiness." She makes no notion to move, half straddling him in an effort to stay as close as possible. He will fall for someone far more deserving than her, she thinks. She hopes. Because that's what's getting her through, that while her world is on fire and burning and her heart is shattered at her feet, there is still some hope for him.  
  
"I'm selfish. For keeping you."

 

Olaf lets out a soft grunt as she climbs more atop him, almost straddling his thighs, adjusting himself slightly so that it's more comfortable for both of them. His hands fall to her hips, naturally, mapping out the curve of her waist as though he may forget it if he doesn't. His eyes slip shut; he kisses her eyelids each in turn, attempting to bring some peace to her mind if only for a moment.  
  
"I'll build a labyrinth for you," he whispers, hoping beyond hope that he's referencing the same myth. He'd adored the Greek mythology courses when he'd been made to take them, but they blur together in his mind now—perhaps he's too far gone already. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and trails his fingers along her high cheekbones. "Nobody makes me happy like you do, Bea."

 

Her fingers tangle with his, a familiar gesture. The spaces fit together neatly as they always have, when she's grabbed his hand to run or drag one another to safety, or sweep the other into a dance. Her hair has come undone from its pins and falls like dark waves across her shoulders. She can't tell if the humming and fire in her veins is the alcohol or the guilt or some bastardized combination of both.  
  
Oh, how she's _ruined_ everything. She can't stop thinking it, the more he speaks, the more he makes her heart sing with such undeserved kindness. The future they can pretend to have is all the more enticing, and for a moment she considers that when he wakes in the morning she very well might still be there, lingering, waiting to take his hand again and _run_.  
  
Her forehead presses against his, and she clings to this bubble of happiness. These soft touches, gentle kisses, and the warmth settled in her chest that feels as if it could banish every inch of darkness in her.

 

Beatrice is so familiar against him, though almost everything they're doing is entirely new. Perhaps it's just due to how often he's imagined these moments, or maybe because he's so intimately knowledgeable about everything else about her - it doesn't really matter; all that matters is that she's here and tangible and very much _his_ , at least for the night.  
  
For a moment Olaf considers the morning, the knowledge that this is likely the last time he will be with her like this, and his stomach drops. No. He can't have thoughts like this now or he will cry and he will never stop aching for her, so he pushes it aside and kisses the hollow of her throat with renewed passion.

 

* * *

 

Olaf staggers slightly on his feet, his temples pounding with the promise of an impending headache. He's not entirely sure how he got here, though he dimly remembers Esmé informing him that this wedding was even going through. She's always had a soft spot for chaos, so it's very possible that she's the one who brought him here and set him loose. Either way, he's more than a little buzzed (he's been drinking for a week solid), and he's hoping beyond hope that this is some sort of sick joke, because his Beatrice, his beautiful girl who left him in the wee hours of the morning in the last sanctuary he's known, she would _never_ do this to him. So he scans the crowd for dark curls and balls his fists at his side.

 

She is laughing, face red from dancing and alcohol and there is nothing in this world to ruin such a perfect day. Bertrand smiles and her heart melts for him just a touch more. Everything is perfect and suddenly, it is not.  
  
When Beatrice spots him, she excuses herself from the duchess and crosses to him. Her dress is a cascade of delicate white, an eye-catching look and she's very grateful the lights are dim.  
  
"I didn't think you'd come."

 

A sneer twists his mouth into something ugly, possible because she is so very very beautiful, and he is... not. The past five years or so have not been kind to Olaf; he has spent them on the run, messy and frightened, and it shows. His clothes are rumpled and frayed, his hair a wild mess. Imagine his surprise when he'd tried to access his fortune, only to find out that every penny had somehow gone missing overnight. He looks _older_ than his years, and tired, with hair that's going prematurely grey at the temples.  
  
"You didn't invite me."

 

"I did."  
  
Beatrice has changed none, untouched by time and circumstance as he has been. Her stomach flops over in on itself,  though she can't decide if that's the guilt, worry, or the first flutterings of the babe she now knows exists there.  
  
But she did invite him, using the last known address she had. Clearly wrong.  
  
"You're drunk."

 

He barks out a laugh, thick and throaty from all the smoking and drinking he's been doing as of late, though no humour appears in his eyes. He's not trying to be quiet, nor subtle, and a few guests seem to take an interest before looking away politely.  
  
"That's a semi-constant state these days," he says with a wry twist of the lips. "So. Marriage."

 

The ring on her finger burns and she draws her hand to her chest, almost protectively. Bertrand is _hers_ and she is _married_ and when she considers it for too long it's overwhelming. She tries not to think about it, lest she do something regretful for all parties involved. She swallows and puts on a brave face, though it slowly kills her to know this is what Olaf's done with himself. She hasn't had contact with him and this is what shows up to see her, and she knows it's her own fault.  
  
"Yes. He asked and I accepted."

 

Olaf nods, his eyes darting away from Beatrice because it hurts too much to look at her. She's still as beautiful as the day she left him, and it aches to know that she is likely happier now than she ever would have been with him in her life. "Hm. Overlooking the murder?"

 

She flinches, as if Olaf's visibly slapped her.  
  
"No. Not really. Quite frankly I didn't have much choice, by the end. But he loves me and that's enough for me."

 

Olaf grimaces, dark eyes flickering to the floor, a wound opening in his chest. Bertrand Baudelaire's love is worth more than his at the end of the day, murder and all, and Beatrice has made her choice. "So do— _did_ —I."

 

"I would've married you, if you'd asked," she replies evenly, surprised how steady her own voice is. "I wanted happiness of my own. Just a fraction of something. Bertrand brought me out of a very deep, depressive state." Like a soft light at the end of the tunnel. "I love you. I still do and I always will. But you know we _can't_. I _can't_. My life—it's here, now."

 

He practically slams his hand on the table they're standing by. Is she _joking_? "I asked you to run away with me," he almost spits, and each word drips like poison from his lips. "I asked you to leave the organisation behind and have a future with me; do you _not think_ marriage might have been somewhere down the line?"

 

"Don't," Beatrice warns darkly. "We both know you _never_ would. You couldn't be happy with me; I aided in _murdering your parents_. I should hardly think any marriage based on that wouldn't last long." She's never forgotten his offer to run away. Not for the first time in a while is she still tempted by it, but it's far too late. If she runs, it'll be on her own. But there is a life depending on her now, an that thought alone terrifies her into staying.

 

"Like I've been happy on my own?" A laugh escapes him, a dark and crazed thing, as he wonders how the smartest woman he's ever known can be so colossally _stupid_. "You were my _world_ , Beatrice; don't you _dare_ tell me what I would have done."

 

"You were supposed to be!" she snaps back at him, feeling vaguely ill. Thankfully none of her guests have seemed to have noticed their conversation at the edge of the room. "You were supposed to forget me. Find someone else. I'm trying to piece back together what little life I have left with this marriage." Because Lemony has shattered her, the man before her has shattered her—she’s not certain she can take it a third time. The wry part of her wishes it was him she'd married together, bound herself to from now to eternity or death, whichever came first—though knowing them, death would certainly claim them long before their time. As such was the VFD curse.

 

"How the hell was I supposed to be happy? They took my parents and my fortune, Beatrice, I had _nothing_. Literally the only connection I had in the world was _you_ , and then you were gone, and I had _nothing_." Olaf’s chest aches and his eyes are blazing, a monster in the making right before her eyes, because he cannot quite fathom that she isn't understanding this. "Who was I supposed to find? Nobody loves a penniless creature on the run; you proved that to me."

 

"You do not get to tell me who to love! I love you and I will always love you but I stand by my decision. I left to protect you. They tried to make me kill you, didn't you know? I _refused_. I wanted you safe and I did what I had to do to ensure it." She wants to wave a wand and fix everything. The world doesn't work quite so well in her favor. She tries not to let the rage and hurt in her time seep into her expression but it does and her chest aches with broken promises.  
  
"I'm sorry."

 

"You did a _damn poor job_ of protecting me, Beatrice Anwh-" Olaf falters. That's not her name anymore, is it? The girl he knew with the disarmingly bright smile, the one who told him that she loved him in a voice that was half-whisper, half-sob, she is gone. Or if not gone, then hidden behind the veil of a woman who's doing a damn fine job of pretending that this isn't killing her. He regards her for a moment, as though searching for something, anything that he recognises, and when he comes up empty, he draws himself up and nods once.  
  
"Miss Baudelaire," he corrects himself. "A lovely party for an absolutely _lovely_ couple; I hope you'll understand if I don't stay. I was thinking I might dart off to the opera." It's a petty jab, poorly disguised, but he's been drunk for the better part of a week and he's doing his best. "L'chaim."

 

She inhales sharply through her teeth, a muscle jumping in her jaw. She wants to pity him, but his jabs make it difficult. She wants to scream. And then she reminds herself that this is her fault, this is what she's turned him into. Her fingers dig in the soft lace of her dress so she might hide her clenched fists, features drawn.  
  
"If you didn't still love me you wouldn’t be here," she observes, finally, quietly. "You need a glass of water."

 

He shakes his head, a weak movement that sends tremors through his entire body. He's always been a skinny man, but he's positively malnourished now. His eyes are bright with hunger and what might be the beginnings of a fever, and he's already taking a step back. "I don't know you," he says, and his voice breaks halfway through. "I loved someone else; I don't know who you are, and I don't want anything from you."

 

She follows with a step of her own. "Please. Please don't. Let me help you," she half whispers, half begs. She isn't blind to what time has done to him. He has suffered in ways she cannot imagine; instead she writes heartbreaking poetry about their short time together, and the turmoil following. She still writes him letters, that she burns or rips to shreds before sending them. Nothing she does seems right anymore—she doesn't even recognize herself most days.

 

"You had your chance to help me," Olaf says, another step, and then another. He's this close to turning tail and running, but he doesn't quite have that in him. "Your version of 'help' was leaving me on my own for five years; I'm just heading you off at the pass." He will not let her leave him again; she forwent that right the minute that she said 'I do.'

 

"I was wrong, is that what you want to hear?" she says, and there's five years of raw emotion in how her voice breaks when she says it. "I made a mistake, and I can't change the past but I want to help you! _Please!_ "

 

And his voice is getting louder now, he is so far fucking past caring if he makes a scene: "This is not a _mistake_ , Beatrice; this is a _calculated decision_! You left me in the middle of the night on the worst night of my life when you were all I had, and then you shacked up with one of the people who killed my parents before deciding to _marry_ the other one! There's no _mistake_ there; don't act like you didn't know exactly what you were doing!"

 

Well, that's certainly attracted attention. No one moves to her aid, to defend her, and she prefers it. Because he is right. She's torn it apart, thrown it away, and stood back as it burned to ash. The fact that he has emerged from the ash means he has survived. Yet suffered, and she is the guilty party by all means.  
  
"What else would you have me do!?" she snaps furiously because to hell with it, if they're having this out here and now. "And you didn't have to come here tonight! You're the one who showed up, determined to make yourself more miserable and dragging me with you!"

 

"I would've had you come with me, you _knew_ that was what I wanted!" he hisses, and god fucking damn it, he's crying, he's pathetically sobbing like a child in front of her with an audience of what may be hundreds of people. "I _showed up_ , as you so eloquently put it, because I honestly didn't _believe_ Esmé when she told me! I didn't believe it of you, not my Beatrice, I didn't think that you'd fallen from grace so fucking spectacularly that you didn't have the moral compass to realise that if you _ever_ loved me, you wouldn't do this!"

 

"I can't imagine you still loving me after I did what I did! That I would wake up one morning and you would be gone because you realised what a monster you'd tied yourself to!" She's near tears herself, but she's been that way frequently as of late. Hormones. She feels vaguely sick and knocks back a nearby glass of water whispering desperate for it to be alcohol with which to dull the pain in her chest. "I didn't have a _choice_!" Because she's shut out everyone else who's ever loved her, destroyed their relationships in a misguided attempt to protect them. Bertrand is the only one she has left, now.

 

"If anything, _anything_ was going to make me stop loving you, it's _this_ ," Olaf says, waving a hand in an expansive and disgusted gesture, almost hitting himself in the face. God, his depth perception is shot. "Because _you_ just tied yourself to a monster, Bea, and **_you chose him over me."_ ** He hasn't said those words aloud, hasn't even allowed himself to think them, until just now, but it's out there now and he can't take them back, so he stands with wild eyes and a heaving chest, daring her to argue.

 

Beatrice doesn't argue. She can't. Because he's right and thrown all of it in her face. Her earlier happiness and elation is gone, ruined. His misery has brought upon her own. She wants to say she would have chosen him, but the fact she's in a wedding dress with a ring and a mother to be, all points to the contrary.  
  
"Get out," she demands suddenly, shaking in her effort to curb her tears. " _Get out, now._ "

 

A smile twists at his mouth, and it's angry, cruel, but he doesn't argue with her. He swipes at his tears, pokes himself in the eye but doesn't allow himself to falter. " _Mazel tov_ , ma moitié," he says, and the words drip with venom. "I suppose I shouldn't ask for a kiss goodbye." And he's turning on his heel, hoping despite all evidence to the contrary that she'll stop him, already knowing that she won't.

 

* * *

 

The duchess is going to kill her, Beatrice thinks as she weaves through faces old and new, some visible and some not. She is risking everything, but staring at the same four walls these past months have worn on her. She needed an escape, if only for the night. Her dress is an array of red and orange, feathered in places with gossamer wings that trail from her shoulders. A phoenix, complete with an elegantly wire wrapped mask to hide her face: she isn't ready to return to the living yet.

 

Olaf for his part does not belong here in the slightest; every face here is that of someone who's turned their back on him when he needed them most, and every single one blames him for the death of Beatrice and Bertrand Baudelaire—and they are right to. He blames himself, though he only regrets one of those deaths, and he cannot blame them for their anger. Not when he has so many other things to blame them for. He hides his face behind a wooden mask painted with red, orange, and yellow swirls, flames licking their way up his face, and peoplewatches. He's still not sure what he came here for, other than a feeling in his heart that he needed to, and he's about to give up when he catches a glimpse of a phoenix and his heart drops out of his chest at the symbolism.

 

She longs to dance, or enjoy a root beer float. She can do neither, to risk exposing herself, so she continues to watch those around her out of sheer curiosity. The duchess has thrown one hell of a party. She turns to avoid being run into and nearly runs into another, his mask a direct complement to her own outfit. Something halts in her chest and she twists away before she's recognised again, afraid, cowardly. Beatrice knows for the sake of her children she cannot be recognized, and the atmosphere is suddenly stifling. She flees, escaping between two more dancing couples to the balcony beyond.

 

He's been staring, somewhat entranced, at this phoenix woman for quite some time now when she almost knocks into him. He starts to say something, but she turns, flees before he can even get the chance. He's trying to remain undercover, Olaf reminds himself. He's not here to chase down odd women in stunning outfits, Olaf reminds himself. He is a fugitive from this very organisation, Olaf reminds himself, and then he's off, following her to the balcony that seems to be her destination.

 

The eyes on her back never stop, she can feel. It's worrying. Has she done something to bring attention to herself? The fresh air knocks into her and she wraps her fingers around the balcony railing to steady herself. It's quiet here compared to the noise of the party indoors, and there's no hiding if she's been followed.

 

He keeps his distance still, not quite sure if he wants to approach this phoenix, this beautiful creature of ash and flame. He and fire have a complex relationship, now more than ever, and for a fanciful moment he wonders if it will burn him to get close to her. He knocks back the last of the champagne in his hand, places the glass on a nearby table, and approaches.  
  
"Beautiful night, isn't it?" he says, pitching his voice an octave or two lower, disguising it further with the hint of an English accent. _Show-off_ , he thinks, but doesn't let the self-deprecation show on his face.

 

She doesn't recognize the voice. There's something off about it, but she doesn't press it. She's safe here, though she isn't sure if she's trying to convince herself or someone else more. She tilts her head toward the stars rather than the monumentous drop down below.  
  
"Yes." She adopts a softer tone, one she doesn't even recognize herself. Melancholy colors it, along with an accent that is neither here nor there. "It seems a crime to stay inside when it's so lovely out here."

 

Olaf tilts his head. There's something about her intonation that seems familiar, though he supposes that he likely knows most of the people here. Perhaps they've met in passing at one point or another; he wonders, dimly, how much she knows about the organisation she works for.  
  
"Especially when you can light up the night in such a way, hm?" he says, gesturing loosely to her flowing skirts. "A phoenix. How poignant."

 

"Nothing else suited me much," Beatrice declares. Perhaps if she'd thought about it she could have added proper fire somehow, though it seems foolish for such a party filled with firefighters who would sooner throw a bucket of water on her if she did spontaneously catch alight for a party trick.  
  
"Though I can't quite sort out what you are. A mask alone doesn't dictate a costume."

 

"I'm breaking tradition," he says, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or perhaps a matchstick, if only my face is alight. Pick whichever answer seems more poetic to you."

 

"Both." She hums, tilting her head thoughtfully. This is the most interaction she's had in weeks, so she's enjoying it more than she should. "I like it."

 

Olaf bows, though it's really just a slight bend at the waist with a respectful incline of the head. "You flatter me, Miss...?"

 

Of all things, it's that which triggers something in her mind. She stares at him. This figure. And it's as if he's removed his mask all at once. She's reeling, the heaviness in her chest returning and threatening to drag her down. She falters just so, and tries not to let it show.  
  
"Carrie," she supplies; it's the only thing she can think of. "A pleasure."

 

There's a subtle shift in the atmosphere; Olaf furrows his brow beneath his mask as he tries to puzzle out exactly what he could have said to change her posture in such a minute yet dramatic fashion. "Carrie," he repeats, tasting the syllables. It doesn't suit this woman; he knows already that it's a pseudonym, but he's happy to let her have her anonymity for now. "It is indeed."

 

Her head tilts again toward the stars. She wants to escape back inside. She is not safe, she thinks. Not here. Not anymore. Though she deserves it; she's here at a party rather than trying to find her children, who are suffering and alone. Idiot Beatrice. She doesn't deserve to be a mother at all; it's a thought that strikes her frequently as of late. Perhaps it would be better if she stayed dead.  
  
"Do you always talk to strange women at parties?"

 

The act of looking up at the stars is a familiar one, one that Olaf associates far too strongly with a dead woman, and for a moment he allows himself to wonder. What if she'd survived, what if she was here now, at this party, with him? Unfortunately, it's a foolish thought, and he only lets himself enjoy it for a moment before banishing it from his mind.  
  
"Only mysterious ones dressed as fires," he quips. "Tell me, Carrie, could I trouble you for a dance?"

 

Her head whips around to look at him. Hesitant. But wanting. Because for a moment there is nothing terrible between them. For a moment it's as if the past does not exist.  
  
"I would love to." Beatrice places her hand in his. "I haven't danced in ages. I might be rusty."

 

He curls his fingers around her delicate hand, and again, there's something all too familiar about how well they fit together, but he puts it aside for a moment because he wouldn't know what to do with this fact if it was true. "Never fear, my dear, it's been quite some time since my last dance as well."

 

Her lips twist into a wry smile and as she leads them inside, the atmosphere is infectious once more. It's dizzying, really. VFD also did party like it was their last night on earth; sometimes, it was. "Just watch my toes; I don't have steel toe boots on."

 

"I'll do my best not to maim you," Olaf says, and with that a new song starts and he begins to lead. "I think you're in safe hands; most comments on my dancing have been complimentary."

 

"Good to know." She smiles softly. How easy it is to play pretend. She hates herself for it, but decides that's an emotion for tomorrow-Beatrice to deal with. She falls into step with him as if made to do so, moving easily.  "I don't think I've seen you at these events before."

 

“I'm usually not invited," he says with a slight grimace, if by 'usually' he means 'ever'. "But I thought it would be nice to have one last hurrah, so to speak, and so. Well. Here I am." He lifts an arm, an invitation for her to twirl.

 

She does twirl, and the layers of her dress fan out like the flames of a fire around her legs. "Last hurrah? Going somewhere exciting, then? Or are you allowed to say?"

 

"I'm leaving..." His voice trails off as she begins to twirl, and his chest tightens as the "flames" lick at her legs, and if he wasn't sure that this was a ghost from the past come to haunt him before, he is now. Something about the imagery of this incredibly remarkable woman ablaze sparks the neurons in his head, and he's almost certain that this is Beatrice Baudelaire. But "almost" is not the same as "is", and so before he can think better of it, he pulls this dance partner with the false name and hidden face close, and he kisses her, and it is Beatrice's mouth that he finds waiting for him.

 

She isn't exactly on guard, and she regrets it the moment his lips are on hers. The action is achingly familiar and Beatrice melts against him immediately. She has no doubts now, who is behind that mask; she reaches up and pulls it away before she can stop herself because she _needs_ to see him. Because there is rage and fury in her and at the same time, a desperation to love him. She still does. Her heart tells her such, though the feeling has grown colder; she is no stranger to the things he's put her children through.  
  
"You..."

 

Olaf does not touch her mask, though he desperately wants to. She would be among friends here; if she's hiding, she must have a reason beyond his understanding. A soft sigh escapes him as she pulls the mask from his face, knowing that soon the dance will be over and somebody will recognise him, and then he will have to flee all over again. Still, it is worth it to know that Beatrice, his Beatrice, his everything even after all this time, is still alive.  
  
"Me." His voice is soft, hushed, but he loses the accent. What's the point now? "I'm... very glad to see you; isn't that funny?"

 

Her voice changes to her normal tone, but still soft; silently, she replaces his mask because rationale takes over and while she could smack him, she would rather not be robbed of the chance by another eager volunteer.  
  
"Funny." Beatrice echoes, staring at him without ever losing step. Her lips tingle from his kiss. The years have not changed that particular token. "Funny is how I'm not going to destroy you on this dance floor here and now for what you've done. I don't want blood on my dress."

 

He deserves that, he acknowledges, but it still aches to hear it from her lips. He is not proud of who he has become, not by a long shot, but he'd hoped that she might understand. He is doing what he has to do to survive, with a bit of revenge thrown in—though said revenge is slightly tainted now. He'd have given anything for her not to know what he has done, and by the sounds of it, she already knows everything.  
  
"I'm certain nobody would blame you; they'd probably all join in," he says with a small, bitter smile.

 

She doesn't say anything, not for a long while. Lets the music and sounds wash over her. It's easier than anything else at the moment.  
  
"You burned down my home. You tried to kill me. And now you've made my children suffer for crimes they did not commit. _Why?_ "

 

Olaf's smile drops as soon as it had come; she truly does believe that he was the only one involved in the fire. That he truly wanted her dead. Does she not know him at all anymore? Does he not know her?  
  
"Is that really what you think?" he murmurs.

 

"Whether you set the fire or not, it doesn't give you an excuse to my children,” Beatrice says quietly. "I don't know who or what to believe anymore."

 

Now that part he truly can't deny; he has become a monster proper in recent months, and he can't quite find a way to the light again, except for that he finds in the hearts of matches. "I didn't...." His voice fades; he can't lie to her. "I don't know. It's... more complicated than I can tell you; I thought that you were dead and I wanted...."

He's faltering. It occurs to him that _he_ isn't quite sure why he's doing all this. His voice hardens slightly: "I suppose that 'because it's fun' isn't an acceptable answer?"

 

There's a muscle jumping in her jaw, her teeth grinding together. "No. No, you do not get to give that answer. You do not get to tell me you've been torturing my children for fun because that is _not_ who you are. You are better than this." She's afraid to ask if it's Esmé's doing, forcing his hand. She wouldn't put it past her, the vile woman.

 

Olaf hunches his shoulder slightly, a protective maneuver that does nothing but make him feel slightly safer. She still has that much faith in him? That hurts more deeply than he knows how to communicate, because he knows that he doesn't deserve it. "Not anymore," he says in a hollow, hollow voice. "Not for quite some time, I'm afraid."

 

When the song ends, Beatrice catches him by the arm to pull him back outside, away from the other volunteers. She rips off her mask, face flushed, and rests it on the balcony railing edge. "I don't believe you."

 

And dear god, she's beautiful. It's hardly surprising, he supposes—she's always been stunning—but something about seeing her face for the first time in a long time, all of which was spent thinking she was dead, knocks the air right out of his lungs. She's a spitting furious flame, and Olaf both fears and adores her in this moment. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's true, and he hates it. "I don't think you want me to convince you."

 

Oh, she knows every detail. She'd demanded that much of the duchess. The fact that he won't deny it makes her chest ache because for all this time, she's tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. It's harder to breathe, all of a sudden.  
  
" _What have I done to you?_ "

 

The desperation in Beatrice’s voice with that last sentence absolutely destroys him, and Olaf wants to take her into his arms and apologise for the rest of his life, tell her that he'll never harm her or her children again, say that he'll be good from now on. But he doesn't deserve a redemption arc, and he doesn't know what he'd do with one if he got it. She deserves better even as he snatches away what little she has.  
  
"So you _do_ know."

 

She uses the railing to hold herself steady. Her eyes burn, but she fiercely holds them back. She's spent too much time lately crying. She only nods, and suddenly the drop just beyond the railing looks all the more enticing. Yes. Perhaps she should have died in the fire. The suffering would be less. She still isn't certain she can save her children, much less if they'll ever trust her again.  
  
"I'm a widow. My children are orphans. If I'd known any of this, I'd have run. Far and away."

 

"I didn't... want anyone to die," Olaf says, and it's perhaps the truest thing that he's said in a very long time. "I didn't _mean_ for anybody to die; I thought... I thought that was the last line that I would never be able to cross. And then," and he laughs, but it's not because he finds anything funny. "Then I crossed it, entirely by accident, and I... It was so much _easier_ than I thought it would be."

 

There is blood on both their hands and she thinks, she _knows_ she's driven him to this. This is her fault, everything, and it's a realisation that nearly sends her to her knees. She swallows, gulping down air to lessen the dizziness.  
  
"I want to take it back. Everything. But I'd kill someone. Anyone. If it meant getting my children back. Safe."

 

"Do it then," he whispers, and his eyes go up to meet hers, fragile and vulnerable and practically _pleading_. "I don't know how to stop; I think I've fallen too far." He grabs her hands, presses them to his chest so he can feel the erratic _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart. "Get them back; ensure I won't touch them ever again; just _do it._ "

 

Beatrice jerks away immediately, dark eyes wide.  
  
"No. _No_. I will not grant you that. I will not have any more blood on my hands. You _will_ stop. You _will_ be better than this, or I will give you a fate far worse than death." Her tone is fierce compared to his vulnerability, and the way he looks so resigned to death makes her ill. She returns her hands to his chest, but it's to fist the fabric of his shirt, grounding him. She glances at the sharp drop off.  
  
"Don't think for a moment I won't do it if you do."

 

And my goodness, but isn't she commanding. Isn't she just every shade of red and gold? Olaf stands, transfixed by a fire in human form, and briefly considers tossing himself into her flames once again.  
  
"I'd kill anyone, you say, just before informing me you refuse to kill me. I must be a special case after all," he says, soft and bitter. "Still something in your chest for me, Beatrice?"  
  
He is damned if that drop-off doesn't look enticing.

 

Beatrice stares at him, evenly, ablaze with anger, fire, and fury. "I promised you I would always love you. Damn you if that hasn't changed."

 

"I'm damned either way, ma moitié," Olaf murmurs, smiling for just a moment at his accidental rhyme. His eyes fall once again upon the yawning chasm below them. If he can just get her to let go…

 

Her fist tightens in his lapel, as if daring him to even try it.  
  
"No," she says it, and her voice breaks. "I have lost _everything, everyone else_. I will be selfish enough to keep you in this world because I will _not suffer alone_." Her tears escape; she cannot stop them.  
  
"If you jump, I'm two steps behind and we will both find out if the wings on this dress work as they should."

 

He shakes beneath her hands, a weak gesture that he hates, but how can he not be weak in front of this woman whose life he's destroyed, this woman who loves him anyway? (How have their roles reversed so dramatically?)  
  
"Then we suffer together," he whispers, "but I will not suffer alone. If you're going to leave again you may as well push me into the ravine now."

 

Beatrice stares at him, as if deciding whether or not his word may be trusted. When she does, she releases his lapels but doesn't step away; not immediately. Oh, she's done it now. R is going to push her off this very ravine.  
  
"Okay," is what she settles on, slowly. It's exactly what things _won't_ be; things will never be quite okay anywhere. "On the condition you and your men stop chasing my children. Leave Esmé Squalor to me. Let them live. Let them have happiness beyond what we've managed to do to them. Please. Give me that, and... I will stay."

 

Olaf stares at her. This really isn't the answer that he was expecting, and for a singular heart-stopping moment he wonders if it is a trick. For a moment afterwards, he wonders if he has blackmailed her into staying with him, and then he decides that Beatrice has never once been one to do something that she didn't want to do (and God, he hopes he's right on that or he's a bigger monster than even _he_ thought).  
  
"You... don't want to stay with them?" he says, slowly, trying to understand. "I'll let them go, but I don't... They'd never accept me and I wouldn't expect them to; you can't seriously be considering..."

 

"You can't seriously expect them to let me back into their lives. I meant what I said: I have nothing left." She faces the chasm beyond, knuckles white with the force they're gripping the railing with. It's a realisation she's been putting off because it feels like her heart is shattered, and there is no hope of piecing it together. "They would never trust me, even if they did. They're better off thinking me dead. They'll find a stable home, a place to grow up and they will be _happy_. That happiness does not include me." Because she will choose their happiness over hers every time. "Violet will be of age in two years. At that time they can have the money. I'll make certain you get what's owed to you, every cent VFD took. Beyond that... I will accept never seeing them again if it means their comfort and safety."

 

Olaf's eyes trace Beatrice's silhouette against the night sky and the darkness of the ravine, and his heart cracks for her a little more. He and Esmé Squalor are the cause of all this heartbreak, though it's a circular pain that comes from two darts in a dark theatre some twenty years ago. As much as he'd like to say she'd brought this on herself, simply so he could avoid the guilt that comes with knowing that he's ruined the life of the woman he loves, he can't. It is, deep down, his fault, and there are no excuses for what he has done. "I... I'm sorry," he says, and it isn't enough. It will never be enough.

 

"I am, too." Beatrice says, tilting her head to the stars. She isn't looking at them; her eyes are in fact closed. She's crying, silently, mostly because she knows these consequences are of her own doing. She knows this is her fault, that there is nothing left for her beyond the man beside her, and even then she isn't convinced he won't leave as well. She is alone in the universe and that hurts more than anything, shattering what little fraction of a heart she has left.

 

He looks down, into the depths of the ravine that still call to him with their siren song, and then he steps away from the banister. He will be damned if he leaves this woman alone. If he is currently all she has, then he will have to be the most that he can be, and so suicide has ceased to be an option. "May I?" he says softly, reaching for her hands, afraid to touch her in case she shatters—or worse, recoils.

 

She opens her eyes to look at him, her face an invisible mask. Emotions are so easy to cave to, but she's fighting them with everything she has; she's all too keenly aware the rest of the organization is behind those doors, oblivious. As they should be.  
  
She takes his hand with gloved fingers, though they shake. First one, then the other until she's faced toward him, not the banister that would be _so easy_ to fling oneself from. Beatrice will take what she has left in this forsaken world, and will be content with the knowledge her children will be safe.  
  
"We should go, then."

 

"I'd go to the ends of the earth with you," Olaf says softly, and the hand that isn't currently holding hers comes up to take off his mask. He regards her, face to face, for the first time since her wedding night, and his eyes gleam with something that could almost be called hope. "It might not be such a bad life, Beatrice."

 

"No. It won't be," she says gently, and there's the ghost of a smile that upturns the corners of her lips. She squeezes his hand. "It'll be what we make it. Just like old times. Things will... they will be better, I should think."

 

He leans in, brushes his lips gently along the smooth curve of her forehead. He doesn't want to overwhelm her; can sense that whatever this reignited thing between them is is fragile, and he doesn't want to shatter it by being careless or too much. "I will spend the rest of my life trying to be a man that you can be proud of, Beatrice," he says softly. "I promise you that I will be better for you."

 

"You say that as if I'm some fashion of a saint. I'm not—I haven't been _your_ Beatrice in a very long time. Not the one you knew." She doesn't even feel like _Beatrice_ most days anymore. Instead she's some fashion of a ghost residing in a broken hearted body. But this feels real, at least. The warmth and weight of his hand in her own.

 

Olaf smiles: a frail and fragile thing, but it is in fact a smile. His eyes seem a bit warmer already. "You've always been my Beatrice," he corrects her, tipping her chin up with his free hand, forcing her to look at him. "Regardless of what you've done; my heart has been in your hands since I was... what, twelve?" They'll never be those kids again, but now, at least, they can be adults together. "Am I not still your Olaf?"

 

She meets his gaze when he tilts her chin up, and she can see it. Those eyes. They've always been his tell; she can see through even his greatest disguises if she focuses on those eyes. Despite how unkind time has been to all of them, she can still see the man she had once known, reflected there. There is still such misery in her for the suffering of her children, but perhaps now they will find a kinder world. "Yes. You've always been. Even when we've both been too blind to see it."

 

For a moment Olaf allows himself to mourn for the wasted years, the time that they could have spent together had he only been a bit braver. Had he told her how he felt before that night at the Opera, perhaps she would never have been asked to kill his parents. Had he been only a bit more charismatic in convincing her to run away with him, perhaps they would have explored the world together. Had he only allowed her relationship with Bertrand to run its course, perhaps it would have ended naturally and she would have come back to him, willing to try again. Had he only left her children alone, perhaps she wouldn't be looking at him with those sad, sad eyes.  
  
All these thoughts (save for the last) have occurred to him on a regular basis for decades now, and he spends one last moment wallowing in them before closing his eyes. Breathing out. And letting them go. There is no longer any cause for mourning the possible past, not when he is being given another chance at a future.

"We've matching eyes." His gaze falls to her ankle, then darts to his own, and he looks at her with a small smile. "Funny how we still couldn't see."

 

She barks a laugh that is not entirely voluntary, surprised at the sound the moment it slips free. She puts a hand over her mouth to stop such other nonsense, closing her eyes a moment and shaking her head. It's a ridiculous feeling; she's wanted to rub her skin raw until that damned tattoo comes off and sometimes she still does want to, even now. It won't change anything, but perhaps she might feel a bit more free. Most of VFD thinks her dead. She'd learned enough of pretending to play dead from Lemony Snicket. The Duchess has been her only confidant, her only source of information, and a very dear friend. Beyond her, no one knows that Beatrice Baudelaire exists. Beatrice Baudelaire is dead.

 

He's missed that laugh, even when it's harsh and unexpected, not quite her usual fare. It makes him feel young again, and for a moment he can almost feel the years lifting from him. It's a nice fantasy, though he knows that he'll never be that young again. _Time ravages us all—though some less than others,_ he acknowledges, once again taking a moment to look Beatrice over. Where he's aged beyond his forty-odd years (and it kills him, most of his mirrors end up smashed in drunken fits) with prematurely greying hair and yellowing teeth, what little years show on her face only serve to make her look wiser, more distinguished. The smatterings of grey at her temples beg to be kissed, the furrow between her eyes from so much thinking and fretting looks as though he could smooth it with but a finger. She is Beatrice, and she is beautiful, and she is _his._  
  
"Run away with me," he says, a sly half-smile on his face, echoing sentiments from a night lost to ashes.

 

Her fingers tighten in his, and she tilts her head in thought at her would-be rescuer from the chasm to her left, yawning permanently toward the sky in a never ending abyss of black. How easy it would be, to give in. But Beatrice has never been one to take the easy way out, she thinks. She likes the challenge. _Living_ gives her challenge, and while she feels hesitant about it, she knows it will prove a challenging adventure all the same. The ghost of her smile returns, though it lingers at the edges this time as she fists a great handful of her dress into her other, to keep it from getting underfoot.  
  
"Oh, alright then."

 

He settles his mask back on his face so that they'll be able to move through the crowd without causing a scene, waiting for her to do the same.  Once she's done so, he tugs at her hand, and they're off at a decent clip, weaving through throngs of people as though everyone in the room is intangible, save them. When they stand outside properly, on the stairs leading up to the reception hall, Olaf leans in, asking permission to kiss her with his eyes.

 

She feels lighter somehow, as she settles her disguise back in its place. She doesn't let go of his hand, letting him weave them through new and old members of the organization who will one day perhaps find letters or journals from a Beatrice who _survived_. Who _lived_. Or perhaps she'll let them wonder with a quizzical riddle or poem or three, just to keep them busy for a while. The thought is enticing—if they're busy, they won't have time to orphan other children and take away their fortunes.  
  
There is so much noise, and suddenly there is not. It gives her whiplash. When he turns to her, Beatrice answers by kissing him fiercely, words unneeded. She'll tell him later he'll never have to ask permission for such things, silent or not. Later. When they're somewhere far away from this infernal hell, and she is assured her children have a stable, faithful guardian.

 

Olaf holds her face in his hands, drinking in her scent, her taste—still of tea, and salt, and champagne, not so different now even after all these years, the softness of her skin and the tenderness of her lips. She is exquisite, and the years fall off of the two of them together, until they are two lost youths discovering each other for the first time once again, if only for the moment, and that is all he can ask for.  
  
He holds her close, as though he's frightened she might disappear into the night again, or immolate in his grasp, though every moment that they're touching, those fears are fading. She calms the tumult in his head, as she always has.  
  
There is so much noise, and suddenly there is not.  
  
_The world is quiet here._


End file.
